Allen’s ‘Summoning’ spurs envy, admiration

I started “Summoning the Mountains: Pilgrimage Into Forty” with a touch of envy that author Amy Allen could take off half a year to treat herself to her dream.

I ended with more than a touch of admiration that she’d persevered and completed, by “hook or by crook,” the grueling 2,000-miles-plus walk/hike/ struggle from the North Georgia trailhead to the finish line: Katahdin in Maine, where she rightfully claimed the title “thru hiker” of the Appalachian Trail.

The trek wasn’t easy; in fact, it was downright hard. First she’s beset with all the motherly feelings of guilt and obligation that go with leaving sons with her ex-husband (a most obliging man); then she deals with the physical — blisters, falls, illness, aches — and the emotional — age concerns (it seems most of the hikers are just plain young!), loneliness, fears (though not too many), and food (either not carrying enough or not eating enough calories to keep going). The quest is never totally removed from economics (hiking this long trail is an expensive venture), and Allen worries about her teenage sons (great boys) who join her at times along the way.

The book is a celebration — a pilgrimage, yes, a coming to grips as much as one can, with one’s self in a crowded world of responsibilities constantly impinging and nagging. Amy Allen writes beautifully of the wonders, large and small, along the trail: the endearing chipmunks , occasional bears and snakes, elusive moose; the vastness and the minuteness she could see and experience.

She writes with authentic honesty about the hikers she meets, the camaraderie, the kindnesses of those who provide “Trail Magic” (food and drink) and places to sleep. It wasn’t all “tenting” and crowded shelters; there were town times and motel/hotel/B&B times.

I read the book in two sittings, wanting to go on to the next milepost, cheering at her successes, gasping at her tumbles and mishaps, wanting to meet those hikers she met.

And, since this documents her pilgrimage, there is reflection and contemplation, honest irritation and analysis of her situation and of her fellow hikers. For example, about the “comedy of errors” in hanging “the bear bag” of food, she writes: “The vulnerability that may be cute in a pert, 20-something female decidedly does not fit my style at this juncture in life.”

I learned a great deal.

There are many types of hikers on the AT: section hikers, slack-packers, power hikers, blue-blazers, and purists — and the elite: the thru-hikers.

And I had naively visualized the AT as a “trail,” but this trail includes streams, bogs, boulders — to be forded, waded through, clutched at or climbed over.

It means meadows and ridgelines, and persevering through daylight and dark, heat and cold, sunlight and torrential rains — and emotional upheavals. There is much “drying out” of gear and some angst, sweat and tears.

Throughout the trek and the story, Amy Allen writes well, honestly, without pretense or undue cleverness. If she never hikes another trail (and she will, of course), I hope she continues to write.

No, I won’t tackle the Appalachian Trail at my age or at an earlier age. I was happy to be an armchair hiker — with the author all the way. Amy Allen lives and writes in Black Mountain. Her book is available at Malaprop’s in Asheville and City Lights in Sylva, as well as online.

Dr. Celia Miles is the author of six books and a member of the Blue Ridge Bookfest steering committee.